


The Straightforward Path

by veni



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:25:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa expected Stannis to ride in and end all the suffering caused by the Lannisters, perhaps marry her off to a Stormlord. What she got was Tywin Lannister beating back the rebel forces and taking her as his bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary taken from the kinkmeme prompt. I meant to write a short story, but it kind of exploded from there, leaving me with this rather long tale of how I imagine Sansa/Tywin would play out. Enjoy.

_Midway upon the journey of our life_

_I found myself within a forest dark,_

_For the straightforward pathway had been lost_

(Dante’s _Inferno_ , Canto I, l. 1-3).

 

When news of Lord Tywin’s victory at Blackwater reaches her chambers, Sansa feels as if the world has fallen from under her feet. She had been sure, _so sure_ that Lord Stannis and his forces would sweep through the Bay and liberate her from her gilded cage; her father had spent years telling her all about the Baratheon boys—strong Robert, charming Renly, and Stannis, a man made of tempered steel with a head for great strategy. A man who single-handedly held Storm’s End for a year, braving starvation and securing the Stormalnds for his brother. A man, her father said, who should have been born in the North. He could not fail.

 

And yet, he did.

 

And so Lord Stannis does not send an envoy to her solace, and he does not whisk her home to Winterfell; he lies somewhere, beaten and bloodied, while Lannister men crowd the halls, shouts of victory echoing through the walls of the Red Keep. In her mind’s eye Sansa sees Cersei, as drunk as Robert ever was, loud and gleeful and oh-so-smug. She sees Joffrey, pictures the look of demented joy his victory will bring and the violence to her that will surely follow such a battle-high. And she sees the Hound, her only chance at protection, fleeing from King’s Landing and out of her life forever.

 

Sansa feels the tears come hot and fast, and she cannot stop the hollow sob from breaking out of her pale throat; these are not the dainty tears of a lady, but she allows herself this small weakness.

 

It is still dark when she receives the summons. Lord Tyrion’s awkward little squire enters her room, tells her that her presence has been requested in the chambers of the Hand of the King. She is lying on the bed and her face is red from crying, and Podrick will not meet her gaze. She feels despair creeping up on her, but she pushes her dread away; there is no hell they can bring her that she has not already endured.

 

“I require a moment to compose myself,” Sansa announces, in what she hopes is a steady voice. Podrick leaves quickly, waiting for her outside her oaken door. She goes to her basin to splash cool water on her face; she must be dignified in this. They cannot see her cry.

 

Sansa fixes her auburn hair into a pleasing fashion and slips into one of her most fetching gowns—a pale lavender creation, with a wide neckline that leaves her milky shoulders exposed. It is a beautiful dress, and Lord Baelish once remarked that it made her seem like such a tiny, gentle thing; she hopes it helps the Lannisters to find her sufficiently meek. After finishing the outfit with a necklace of thin pearls, she straightens her back and steps gracefully from her chambers. Podrick leads her with an uncharacteristic quietness, and far too soon they have arrived at the Tower of the Hand.

 

She expects to find Lord Tyrion, but when Podrick knocks on the thick wooden doors of the Hand’s chambers it is not his voice that she hears.

 

“Enter,” a man answers curtly. Podrick hastens to obey, all but scrambling to open the doors and usher her inside. She hears the slam of wood behind her, and Sansa finds herself alone with Lord Tywin Lannister.

 

The flickering of candles against the inky blackness of night sends off shadows, and for an instant Lord Tywin is the Father, brought from carved stone in Baelor’s Sept into life before her, all harsh edges and sharp angles. He sits at the large desk, writing, and Sansa feels so far beneath this man she fears she may faint. _I am not prepared for this_ , she realizes. She stops herself from trembling just as his gold-flecked eyes glance up at her.

 

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin says, clearing his desk of pen and parchment. “Sit.”  His is a voice born to command, and it takes a good deal of effort to not run to the chair like an ungainly child; she forces herself to walk with poise before seating herself elegantly across from him. He regards her coolly, but she remains still, posture flawless.

 

Her mother, she thinks, would be proud of her.

 

“I do not care to speak of matters of war with women,” he begins, “but this Blackwater business has forced my hand. Between Stannis and young Robb Stark, the kingdom’s forces are stretched far too thin for my liking. As Hand, it is my duty to remedy this situation.” He leans back, tilts his head and gives her a strange look—predatory but cautious, like a cat in sight of the jugular but not quite sure if it wants to pounce. She pales.

 

“May I be of assistance in this matter, my Lord?” she mutters.

 

“I believe you may, Lady Sansa.” He rests his hands on the table, and she can’t help but noticed the flecks of blood along the black leather gloves. _He has not changed from his battle clothes_.

 

“There is too much work to be done for me to mince words. Let me speak clearly: Lord Stannis will never surrender while he stills draws breath. Your brother may be just as stubbornly honorable, but he will bow to reason; if the Starks and Lannisters were to unite, I believe he would be willing to come to terms with his rightful king.”

 

Panic consumes her. _No, gods, he can’t mean--_

 

“When seeking to bind together houses, _marriage_ is the traditional choice. Once you are with child, warfare will be out of the question.”

 

For a split second Sansa considers throwing herself to the floor and groveling at his feet to be spared his monster of a grandson, to promise subservience if only he would show mercy and lock her away forever, when Lord Tywin continues.

 

“Of course, marriage to King Joffrey is impossible.”

 

Relief washes over her and she suppresses a genuine smile. “I am sorry to hear that, my Lord,” she demurs, eyes downcast, “but I shall always love His Grace most dearly.”

 

“I am sure you care deeply for His Grace,” he states, though she sees he does not truly believe her, “but a marriage with Lady Margaery of the Tyrells is in his best interest. Besides which, he is a Baratheon; a Lannister wedding is what’s needed.”

 

 _For you, mayhaps_ , she thinks sullenly, before it dawns on her—if Lord Tywin means to sell her off to some Lannister, he has very little choice in men. It would never be Tyrion—Robb would take that as an insult, and rightly so—and Ser Jaime is both a captive of her brother and forced to celibacy as a member of the Kingsguard. _A pity for one so handsome_. Her husband can only be Lancel, then; nowhere near as striking as Ser Loras, but at least he can provide her will some semblance of stability. Sansa cannot imagine Lancel riding off into war, and that in itself is a blessing.

 

“You will not suffer through another lengthy engagement—the Small Council tells me they can have the wedding arranged within the week. The sooner you are married and with child, the better.” Finally, he drops his gaze, attention turning back to the papers on his desk. “The boy will take you back to your rooms.”

 

As if on cue, Podrick scurries in. She rises to take his arm before a thought occurs to her. “My Lord,” she begins, “if I may be so bold as to ask the identity of my future lord husband?”

 

“I’d have thought it obvious, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin drawls, gaze never wavering from the parchment before him. “You’ll be marrying me.”

 

Sansa faints long before she hits the cold stone floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Light flickers across the room, pleasantly warm against her pale cheek. Sansa sighs, burrowing deeper into the bed, when she hears the sound of robes shifting. Her eyes flutter open.

 

“I believe she wakes, Your Grace.”

 

“Thank you, Maester Pycelle, for such an astute observation.” Cersei sits across from her; when she catches Sansa’s gaze, her eyes narrow into slits. “Little Dove,” she coos, “how lovely you are in the morning light.” There is a bite in her voice; Sansa is wide awake now, tense and alert.

 

“Shall I check her now, Your Grace?”

 

Cersei does not acknowledge the old man. Rather, she stands, folding her hands into her sleeves. She stalks to Sansa’s bed, towering over her supine form. When her hand reaches out to feel the girl’s forehead, it takes Sansa a good deal of self-restraint to keep from shuddering.

 

“We heard of your fainting spell—such a pitiful creature you are,” Cersei murmurs. “But you need not worry—I’ve brought Maester Pycelle to look you over. You’ll be a lovely Lannister bride in no time.”

 

Her hands grip like claws, digging red into Sansa’s soft flesh. She is jerked from bed, dragged bodily to the center of the room and disrobed by Cersei’s deft fingers. She is too shocked and it is all happening far too quick—soon she is revealed, naked as a newborn babe, for the Queen and the Maester.

 

Sansa is beautiful. She is fawn-like, long of limb and awash in youthful grace. Her hair tumbles down her slim shoulders in waves rocked loose from sleep, and try as she might, her hands cannot fully cover both her budding breasts and her sex. She is beautiful, and Cersei sees this. She is beautiful, and Cersei loathes her.

 

Maester Pycelle, Seven bless him, makes a true attempt to at least pretend the whole ordeal is in the interest of her health. He has Sansa cough and turn and bend and breathe in (and out) as he pokes and prods her naked body while Cersei circles her like a shark. “I just cannot fathom it,” she hisses as Pycelle has Sansa perform a particularly trying series of stretches. “To trick _my lord father_ —it defies all reason.” She pinches a bit of skin on Sansa’s hip. “Too thin.” Cersei grins cruelly. “A poor body to bear children. A set of twins would be the end of you.” Cersei’s callousness, her own nakedness, the thought of bringing more Lannisters into the world—these thoughts swim in her head, and Sansa feels her throat tighten. _No_ , she thinks, _no, I cannot cry, not for them—_

 

“The examination is complete, Your Grace,” Pycelle announces dutifully. “The Lady Sansa appears to have suffered no ill effects from the, ah, _incident_ this past night.”

 

“What good fortune. Lady Sansa, do go back to sleep—you look so frightfully ill, poor thing.”

 

Cersei laughs, and they leave her, shivering and naked in her chambers. Sansa slips quickly into a nightgown before crawling back into bed; she does not want to think of Lord Tywin or his wretched offspring, she wants to sleep—to drift away forever, to die and be sent back to Winterfell to rest in the darkness with her family. But sleep is long in coming, and when she finally leaves the world of the waking, it is only for a few hours. Sansa is soon roused by a soft knocking on her chamber door.

 

“My lady,” Podrick calls in, “may I enter?”

 

“Give me a moment.” Her voice is shrill, even to her own ears. Her handmaiden has been absent since the Battle of Blackwater, forcing Sansa to dress and compose herself far quicker than she prefers. She dons an olive dress of silk—it is a striking color against the red of her hair, and features a much more modest neckline than her other robes. After the shame of the morning, Sansa is all too happy to remain covered.

 

She adjusts the lace of her cuffs before she bids Podrick entrance. “Lady Sansa,” he announces, hovering around the doorway, “Lord Tyrion requests your presence in his chambers.”

 

 _Wonderful, more Lannisters_. “Of course,” she answers politely. “It is always a great pleasure to speak with Lord Tyrion.”

 

Podrick leads her through the castle, past the gleaming stone veneer of the main towers and into narrow, grimy passageways. The pair continue down, down, down, the light of day replaced by flickering candles, cobwebs decorating the walls. The air is moist here; Sansa is close to demanding they turn around—surely the former Hand of the King would have nicer quarters, Podrick must be lost—when they arrive at an ancient wooden door. Podrick enters silently, and she follows.

 

She recognizes the smell immediately. An eternity ago, when she was a child at Winterfell, there was a room her lord father had designated for use of the wounded, whether they be smallfolk attacked by outlaws or men injured in battle. The smell of crusted, dried blood had permeated the walls there; she had only entered the room once, by mistake, but the heavy iron odor, the smell of the sick, would live in her mind forever.

 

She knows the mangled creature is Lord Tyrion before Podrick tells her so. “His lordship was injured in the Battle of Blackwater,” the squire whispers, “and his war wounds have not yet healed, my lady.”

 

Amidst the sheets the bandaged dwarf stirs, propping himself up on stunted arms. “Why Podrick,” he admonishes, “to call these gashes _war wounds_ does me too great a service. You’ll have all the ladies in court fawning over me in no time.” Tyrion glances at Sansa and tries to grin, but the effort on his strained face causes him to grimace. He grasps his cheek, mindful of the dressings. “It seems now is not the time for jests,” he gets out, voice a bit weaker. “Do sit, Lady Sansa.”

 

She seats herself beside his bead, on an old but surprisingly comfortable chair. She smells a slight hint of perfume—clearly, she is not his first lady visitor. “I am sorry that you have suffered so, my lord,” Sansa says. “But I am sure His Grace is eminently grateful for your service.” Her voice is kind but the words ring hollow even to her ears.

 

Tyrion lets out a bitter laugh. “I am sure His Grace is as grateful as his lady mother.” He is quiet for a moment, and Sansa sees something in his eyes—sadness, perhaps, or regret. _He is dejected_ , she realizes. _He must be quarrelling with the Queen._ It did not surprise her, now that she thought of it; Cersei was vindictive and cruel to Sansa, her son’s (former) betrothed—to be an ugly dwarf and brother to the Queen must have sparked a good deal of strife. Cersei was the type of woman who felt every person and every thing around her was a reflection of her own worth; such a vain woman valued her name most of all, and to have a dwarf for a brother must have seemed like an unbearable disgrace.

The moment passes; the blank emptiness leaves his eyes, and Tyrion is again focused on her.

 

“I’ve only just heard the news,” he says softly, “so you must forgive me if I am not quick to offer my congratulations.” There is no mocking tone in his voice, no bitterness. There is genuine compassion in Tyrion’s speech, and it startles her.

 

 _Compose yourself_. “Thank you, my lord. I feel most honored to accept the hand of Lord T-Tywin.” Her voice breaks—the largesse of the situation hits her and she very nearly shakes. Sansa’s hands tighten into fists, white-knuckled against the green of her dress. Tyrion’s hands, calloused and raw from battle, reach out to her own. She does not recoil.

 

“Leave us, Podrick,” he states calmly. His eyes never leave her face and his grip never falters. The boy scuttles off, and soon it is only the two of them in the stifling quiet of Tyrion’s chambers. They are alone.

 

“Lady Sansa,” he begins, voice as delicate as if he was speaking to a colicky babe, “you must calm yourself. As dire as it may appear, it could have been far worse.” He cracks a small smile. “You could have been forced to suffer through marriage with _me_.”

 

She lets out a small sniffle, and Tyrion abandons his attempt at levity, choosing instead to lightly stroke her hand with his thumb. He disgusts her physically, but this show of compassion is so unexpected that Sansa allows it; in this castle of brutes, such gentleness is a welcome change.

 

“It is a tragedy to waste such youth and beauty on a man who possesses neither,” he intones, “but I am honest when I say it could have been far worse. Think of Joffrey, my lady—I have no illusions regarding his nature.” She meets his gaze. _Joffrey is a beast_ , she thinks, and she can see it in Tyrion’s face—he thinks the same. “You have escaped him, and no husband could offer you more protection than the Lord of Casterly Rock. He will never touch you again.”

 

“I…I had not thought of this, my lord.”

 

“This marriage is of further benefit to you, Lady Sansa, in regards to your wolf pack in the North. It could very well end the war with your family and save your brother’s life.”

 

Sansa shifts, uncomfortable. “My brother is a traitor—” she begins before Tyrion tugs on her hands, silencing her. “The walls in my rooms do not have ears, my lady; I beg you, speak freely here, for we shall not have another chance. Your brother is a stubborn young man and a nuisance to my family, but he is your brother all the same. You would like to lay eyes on him again, would you not?”

 

Her eyes brim with tears. “I miss them all so much…” she whispers. Tyrion squeezes her hands in a gesture of comfort. “A marriage with my lord father would unite the wolves and lions, brining an end to the fighting whether they like it or not. You will be responsible for saving your family from ruin, my lady.”

 

A thin ray of hope bubbles high in her chest. _I can endure Lord Tywin_ , she thinks, _if it would save my family_. But then she recalls Joffrey’s stories of his lord grandfather’s cruelty, her father’s disdain for Lord Tywin’s actions during the rebellion. She remembers that he is the man responsible for letting Ser Gregor loose on the land and sending the Riverlands up in smoke. And suddenly Joffrey’s barbarism does not seem so coincidental—like Targaryen madness it is in the blood, and Tywin as forbearer could be worst of all.

 

Panic sets in. _I cannot lay with this man, I cannot father his children._

 

Tyrion sees her grow tense. “My lady?” he questions.

 

Sansa leans forward, eyes wide and fearful. “You must tell me, Lord Tyrion,” she begs, “you must warn me if your lord father is a cruel man.”

 

This demand quiets him. Sansa watches, willing herself not to succumb to hysterics, as Tyrion’s eyes glaze, as he falls back into years of memories of his father. He does not share his thoughts with her, and Sansa does not ask; childhood as a dwarf under such a domineering man must have been truly hellish, but perhaps for her there is hope. When his gaze is once again back in the realm of the present her chest tightens. _Please_ , she thinks, _please, let there be a moment of kindness in this man_.

 

Tyrion chooses his words carefully. “Lord Tywin,” he says slowly, “is not a man easy to please. He does not care for most people, and I know for certain he does not care for me. Small wonder why,” he deadpans before continuing. “He is a man of tremendous ability, and he expects the same of those around him. He inspires great loyalty in his bannermen, but this is mainly due to fear—I believe you are familiar with _The Rains of Castamere_. He is, in short, a harsh man—a steel blade with a golden hilt, as Lord Varys has said.”

 

Sansa draws in a great shaking breath. Tyrion holds up a finger, as if to say, _now just a moment_. “However,” he continues, “although I was not present at the time, I have it on good authority that my lord father was devoted, body and soul, to my lady mother.” Tyrion looks at her, expression unreadable. “They were very much in love, and her loss hurt him unbearably.”

 

He regards her quietly; encouraged by his silence, Sansa speaks. “The knowledge that Lord Tywin is…capable of love—it pleases me, my lord.”

 

Tyrion nods. “All men are capable of love—well, perhaps not the Cleganes, but that’s beside the point. My lord father would never admit to it, but I believe the years alone have had a part in his bitterness. If he were to find another lady wife as agreeable as my lady mother, he would undoubtedly treat her with the same gentleness.”

 

“To be such a perfect lady seems to me an impossible task, my lord. I fear I would only displease his lordship.”

 

“You are more a lady than all these women at court,” Tyrion states, his voice so genuine it astonishes her.

 

“You flatter me, my lord.”

 

“I am no flatterer, Lady Sansa. Duplicity surrounds us here; those at court play a dangerous game, and they wield their falsities like a knife. Your innocence, your sincerity—it is a breath of fresh spring air in this stifling court. Since the death of my lady mother there has been no one in the realm in whom my father could trust completely and without hesitation. If there is any highborn woman alive more suited to him than you, I do not know of her.”

 

Sansa sits still, overwhelmed by Tyrion’s impassioned speech. _A harsh man, but capable of loving the right lady—and Lord Tyrion thinks **I** could be that lady_. Absurdly, she thinks of one of her favorite songs, of the gentle maiden whose warmth melts the heart of the great snow prince. Life is no song—this she has learned—but perhaps a life as the Lady of Casterly Rock would not be such a misfortune. Perhaps the dream of a loving marriage is not lost to her.

 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” she says. Sansa hopes he can hear the earnestness in her voice. “I pray you heal quickly and with ease.” She kisses him on both cheeks. Tyrion blinks, clearly startled, and she smiles; Cersei may be a terror, but this Lannister gives her hope for the brood.

 

“It is my pleasure, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says, having recovered from his slight shock. “It will be a trying task, but I believe it is within your grasp. We must all make the best of the hand we are dealt, as they say. And I think your hand could prove to be a lucky one, indeed.” Tyrion smiles kindly at her before he turns his attention to the door. “Podrick, I have need of you.”

 

The squire bustles in. “Yes, my lord?”

 

“Please escort the Lady Sansa back to her chambers. And fetch me one of those rolls I like on your way back—my heroic deeds have worked up my appetite.”


	3. Chapter 3

Following her encounter with Lord Tyrion, life becomes rather uneventful. With the Tyrells occupying the castle, all attention is diverted to feeding their men and finding places for the newly-arrived highborn at court. And with the Lady Margaery at King’s Landing, even Cersei and Joffrey are suitably distracted. Lord Tywin has not made an appearance in her life since their meeting in the Tower of the Hand.

 

Sansa’s engagement to Joffrey is terminated publicly; she feigns sadness, of course, but cannot help but feel utterly relieved. Her engagement to Lord Tywin is announced at court in passing, to hushed silence. Lord Varys, she notes, seems rather unruffled by the news, while the rest of the court regards her with amusement. Joffrey and his mother are the only ones who are at all flustered.

 

All eyes are on the King and his Queen-to-be, and so Sansa is left alone. She passes a few days in blessed solitude; she sews and works on her needlepoint—she intends to make something for her wedding, though she is unsure what it should be—and she is not bothered by a single Lannister. Lord Tyrion recovers in his rooms, tucked away from prying eyes. Sansa misses his company, which she would have once thought impossible. Impulsively, she decides to visit the sept to pray for him. It is the day before her wedding is scheduled to occur (Lord Tywin had been honest when he promised a short engagement), and prayer to the Seven has always calmed her.

 

The Great Sept of Baelor is a lofty thing, more grandiose and ornate than any building Sansa has ever seen. Its seven crystal towers soar high in the sky, and the large, detailed stained glass windows decorating the structure inspire total and complete awe in all those who lay eyes on them—Sansa included. She will always respect her father’s gods, but she cannot understand how the gods of the old dark forests could ever hope to surpass the light and beauty of the Seven.

 

It is very early in the morning, and the inner chamber of the sept is largely empty, save for a few doddering septons and septas. They pay no attention to her as she weaves her way past the seven altars, lined with candles and offerings, to the marble statue of the Mother. Sansa kneels silently before the gilded matron, carefully smoothing her light aqua dress and arranging herself in the proper praying position. She thinks of her own Septa with a twinge of guilt; she quickly smothers the feeling. _I must look forward_. Sansa tilts her head upwards, focusing on the Mother’s serene, comforting visage. She closes her eyes and starts her prayers.

 

“Mother,” Sansa mutters quietly, “please take Lord Tyrion into your caring hands and make him well again. Please comfort him and make him whole.” She opens her eyes and leans toward the base of the altar, where she lights a candle. She watches it flicker, bathing her face in its faint glow. _I must not be a dim light to be snuffed out_. The flame glimmers, reflects itself in her eyes. _I must burn bright and hot_.

 

 _Winter is coming_. Never have the Stark words rung more true.

 

Lost in thought, Sansa does not hear the heavy steps approaching her. Her eyes are closed again and she is praying, for her own mother and family, for poor Margaery, for herself. A tall shadow casts itself over her kneeling form but she does not see it.

 

“Lady Sansa,” says a quiet voice. Her eyes flash open and she turns with a start. Behind her, as towering and intimidating as the Great Sept itself, stands Lord Tywin. He is dressed in a black doublet inlaid with golden thread, and on his feet are tall black riding boots. His trousers are a sharp black as well, so unlike the ostentatious clothes she has seen men wear at the Red Keep. It is an outfit devoid of frivolities, yet it projects great wealth and power. Down on the ground, her blue eyes wide with shock, Sansa knows she must look weak and small to this daunting lord. She swallows audibly. _Seven help me_.

 

She expects him to walk away, disgusted at her pathetic state. Or perhaps to make some snide remark concerning prayers, as Cersei had on so many occasions. Instead he offers her a hand. Sansa takes it willingly, trying not to register any surprise on her face. He pulls her slight frame up with ease, expression impenetrable. Even when she is standing, he towers over her. “I did not expect to find you here. I have not known many courtly ladies to be very fond of the sept.” His tone is clipped, frank—but not annoyed.

 

She recalls what Tyrion had told her, of his lord father’s disdain for those around him. “I am not like many courtly ladies, my lord,” Sansa answers. She meets his gold-flicked eyes, keeping her expression open but restrained. “To be honest, I find many of them rather tiring.”

 

“A valid sentiment, Lady Sansa.” There is approval in his gaze.

 

She is encouraged. “To be honest, my lord, I had not expected to find you here either. I did not take you for a religious man.”

 

His look becomes more critical and she pales. _Oh gods, that wasn’t right, I shouldn’t have said—_

“I have found,” he begins evenly, “that a wife is more suited to prayer than her lord husband. Though sometimes even he may have cause to enter a sept.” Lord Tywin turns his gaze from her to regard the statue of the Mother.

 

In an instant Sansa realizes what would bring a man like Lord Tywin to the altar of this goddess on the eve of his wedding. She turns to look at the statue as well, before facing him once again. “My lord,” she says, voice gentle and soft, “I have finished my prayers. With your permission I will leave you to pray for your lady wife.”

 

It is almost imperceptible, the way his eyes widen—but she sees. Lord Tywin gives her a curt nod and she curtsies, leaving him with thoughts of his deceased wife.

 

Sansa exits the sept with a smile on her face. She has proven herself perceptive, more than the naïve child he surely believed her to be. _I am a true lady_ , she thinks, _and I can be a true lady wife to this man_.

 

Tyrion would be pleased with her.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa is awoken on the morning of her wedding by a flurry of ladies-in-waiting accompanied by the Lady Margaery herself. “You do look so fetching already,” the Tyrell girl teases, seated on the edge of Sansa’ bed, “but perhaps you would not mind if the ladies and I give you a hand.” Her voice is good-natured and sweet, and the eager smiles of the accompanying women put Sansa at ease; these are Lady Margaery’s girls, not Cersei’s—she is safe with them.

 

They have her out of bed and scrubbed clean in a flash, and soon Sansa is the object of total and complete artistic devotion. Her hair is washed and brushed and twirled into a dozen hairstyles. “The triple-braid is all the rage in Highgarden!” one girl squeals, while another attempts to fight her for the hairbrush. “Absolutely not! A tall bun is what’s in order—much more regal, if you ask me.”

 

“Girls, please,” says Lady Margaery. She takes a lock of Sansa’s hair and curls it idly between her fingers. “Such lovely red hair should be set free. We’ll leave it to flow out behind you, Sansa darling. Oh, see how it sets in such nice waves? Lord Tywin won’t be able to resist you.” She smiles wickedly and Sansa blushes. The girls laugh and chime in accordance with Lady Margaery, and they all help set Sansa’s hair in loose, flowing curls.

 

The wedding dress is presented with the sort of pomp and ceremony only young girls can manage. “Oh, it’s lovely,” someone breathes, and they all mutter in agreement. Indeed, it _is_ lovely; the luxurious, satin gown is a rich grey with white embellishments threaded in the cuffs and neck. An ivory ribbon is laced around the middle, hanging delicately over her waist, and on the very hem of her dress Sansa can see the Stark direwolf embroidered all along the edges, as if she walks with her very own wolf pack. Her eyes start to tear up—it has been so long since she has been able to wear her own colors, and to see them represented so elegantly makes her throat tighten. Lady Margaery sees her tears and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It is superb, isn’t it?”

 

“Put it on!” a girl squeaks. Sansa dries her eyes and obliges; the dress is light and comfortable, and slipping it on is as easy as donning a second skin. She gives a little twirl and the girls let out a cheer.

 

The noise dies down as a knock on the door reverberates through her chambers. “Lady Sansa!” Podrick calls in. “May I enter?”

 

“Lady Sansa is rather preoccupied,” Lady Margaery answers. “Might this wait?”

 

“I-I have a gift for her ladyship,” he answers, voice meeker. “From Lord Tyrion, my ladies.”

 

One of the ladies-in-waiting is sent to the door, where she retrieves a small box about the size of a sweet roll. Podrick tries to peek in, but the door is quickly slammed in his face.  The box is handed to Lady Margaery, who then gives it to Sansa herself. “To lay in waiting is but a cruel torture,” she quips. “Please end our suffering, Lady Sansa.”

 

Sansa seats herself on her bed as the girls crowd around her. _It must be a very special gift, for Lord Tyrion to send it to me directly_. Hesitantly, she opens the box; there is a collective gasp.

 

Resting on a delicate gold chain is the most finely-crafted, exquisitely cut ruby Sansa has ever seen. She turns it, and as the daylight hits it the gem gleams a deep blood-red. _Red and gold_ , she thinks. _Lannister colors_. She is overwhelmed by Tyrion’s generosity. “This is—it’s absolutely stunning, I must thank his lordship at once.”

 

Sansa starts to rise; Lady Margaery tugs at her dress gently. “You will see him after the wedding, my lady. There is too much to be done for you to leave now.” She takes the necklace carefully and strings it over Sansa’s neck. She brushes back her auburn hair and urges Sansa to regard herself in her looking glass.

 

“You look so lovely, my lady!”

 

“Such a gem…”

 

“You really are a beauty,” Lady Margaery says, agreeing with her ladies’ collective praise. “And with that necklace, I do not believe your outfit needs any more improvements. Come, ladies, we must leave Lady Sansa to prepare herself.”

 

Sansa turns from the mirror, confused. “You’re leaving, my lady?”

 

“Sadly, we must,” Margaery answers with a small frown. "I have much to attend to myself, and you would do well to take some time to compose yourself and rest. My wedding day was an absolute storm of activities; you will be grateful for this peace later, my lady, I am sure of it.”

 

The women leave, Lady Margaery at their head.

 

Devoid of the chattering of eager ladies, Sansa’s chambers suddenly feel far too empty. _I did not realize how lonely I have become_ , she thinks sullenly. She picks up the small box, if only to have something to occupy her hands; on closer inspection, she notices a thin scrap of parchment wedged inside the corner of the velvet box. Curiously, Sansa pulls it out.

 

It is folded tightly and wrapped in red string. She untwines it delicately. Upon the parchment, written in a tight, careful script, is a note:

_Lady Sansa,_

_This gift may help Lord Tywin to see you in a more familial light. And he has always been rather fond of red and gold._

_Welcome to the family._

 

It is unsigned, but she knows it had to be Lord Tyrion. Again, Sansa is moved by his kindness. _Mayhaps I could give him a gift of my own_. Placing the box gently on the bed, Sansa moves swiftly to her trunk and rummages through her sewing supplies. _I do not have much time_ , she thinks, _but I can surely sew **something** for Lord Tyrion_. Finally, she manages to scrape together enough scraps of cloth, which she piles on the floor before seating herself beside them. Needle in hand, she begins her work.

 

Sansa has been sewing since her third nameday. While Arya had been off aggravating her brothers, Sansa had been honing her craft diligently, and her precision and talent with needlework is one of her most prided attributes. It takes her only a few hours to complete her gift: a handkerchief of the Stark direwolf in gold embroidered on a red background—heraldry of Lannister and Stark entwined. _Thank the Seven I did not use all of my cloth for Lord Tywin’s gift_ , she thinks, relieved. She wraps Lord Tyrion’s present in a thin layer of parchment—she has no other wrapping—and ties it with one of her hair ribbons. Satisfied, Sansa hides it in her trunk atop her gift for her future lord husband. She will have Podrick bring them to her at the feast after the ceremony.

 

A handmaiden enters her chambers to inform her that it is time for the ceremony. Without a backwards glance, Sansa accompanies her, head held high, back straight, and perfectly outwardly composed.

 

Inside she feels as if a flock of ravens has been let lose on her tummy, but she shows no fear. _Winter is coming_ , she thinks, _and I am of the North_.


End file.
